Penny for the Guy
by The Last European
Summary: In August, Hermione returned to Hogwarts.
1. August

**AUGUST**

In August, Hermione returned to Hogwarts.

It was early evening, midway through the month, when she disapparated from her parents' pretty, modern townhouse to just outside of the school's gateway. She had been sorry to leave the comfortable spare room of the Granger's new residence. It wasn't the room she had grown up in, but then, really, neither was the one in her childhood home. She found that she didn't miss the old room, with its muted pink paper and delicate curtains. It hadn't been her home for years -- not really. Two weeks in the newly purchased London residence, in a normal Muggle bed, without the need for mosquito netting or a ready wand, had been enough for it to ingratiate itself with her.

Still, as her date of her next departure neared, she couldn't help but be excited. Every change was an adventure she welcomed; every new setting was a new opportunity to learn. Hermione gobbled new people and new places with the voracity she had, in her youth, had for books.

"Honestly, Hermione," her mum had said. With her hands on her hips, she had watched Hermione send her packed belongings off with a wizarding courier. "Is it impossible for you to just stay in one place for longer than a fortnight?"

Hermione had shrugged and patted her mum on the shoulder, recognizing the criticism for what it truly was –- an admission that she would be missed. Cate Granger was not a demonstrative woman; Hermione had learnt to read between the lines.

And, so, Hermione left London, not with a childhood reclaimed as much as with a new and fully-formed appreciation for her parents. It was an adult fondness for a man who, each evening, silently passed her the Global section of The Times, without needing to be asked, and for a woman who, though embarrassed by kisses, still worried quietly over the welfare of her only child. Hermione did not burden them with emotional neediness, nor did they unravel her to the half-made character she had been in childhood.

No, that was an experience left to her initial return to Scotland.

It was the smell that she noticed first. The moment the sucking swirl of apparition was cleared from her head, there it was -- the air, that highland air, so different than thick London; than oppressive Kolkata; than Yerushalayim's zing of strange magic, or the gagging-sweet cloy on Ile de la Tortue. It made her head spin, that smell, more than the whirl of apparition normally did; she swayed, trying to reconcile the sensory input of her youth, with her more experienced adult self. For naught, it turned out, as, when she opened her eyes, there was also the green -- oh, the green! She had entirely forgotten how brilliant Scotland was, how very rich the colors were. They were almost suffocating in their intensity. They carried her away –- back, back, back in time, as though she had too enthusiastically spun a Time-Turner. Walking through the boar-flanked gate, she did not feel twenty-two. She felt sixteen again. She felt fourteen. She felt twelve. She felt as though she were seeing it all for the first time and, at the same time, like she had never really left at all.

Inside the gates and up the path, the castle loomed, and, yet, Hermione could not bring herself to go through the heavy doors and shut herself inside just yet. Instead, she turned and crossed the lawn. Hermione followed the outer wall of the school before cutting away, across the grounds. The grass was thick, coarse and tall around the cliffs; it slipped into her thickly-soled leather sandals and slapped sharply against her bare legs. She walked until she reached the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the lake. Against her legs, the wind whipped the white cotton dress that was a perfect choice for muggy London, but too thin for the cooling highland climate. The sky, rather than overcast, was turned a brilliant swirl of orange and yellow by the setting sun. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself against the breeze and turned her face up to the light.

So intent, was she, on the fading warmth, that she startled when a voice said, "I've been expecting you inside, Miss Granger."

Minerva McGonagall was smaller than Hermione remembered -- or, perhaps, she thought, she herself might be bigger. The roll of the accent was softer; it seemed less like the cracking of a whip. But the Professor's face was much the same and there was kindness in it.

"I was distracted," Hermione spoke as an apology and gestured toward the setting sun, the lush green of the hills and the indigo ink of the lake.

"Yes, I've often thought it a shame that the school isn't year-round," Professor McGonagall said. Nodding at Hermione's attempt to smother a smile, she continued, "So that the students could enjoy Hogwarts in the summer, of course. Though, no doubt there would be educational benefits, as well."

"No doubt," Hermione agreed.

The two women stood together until the light of late afternoon gave way to early evening, when McGonagall crisply nodded to Hermione and ordered her to come along inside and see her rooms.

First, she was ushered to a first floor classroom. It was small; there was just enough room to comfortably instruct the ten-or-so students each class would contain. Empty cases lined the walls, waiting for books and props. There was a long, crescent-shaped table with chairs enough for a class. In front of that was a large chalkboard, to the side of which stood an enormous Wizard's Globe.

"Is this what you had in mind, Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall asked, noting the small smile on Hermione's face.

Hermione moved around the room, already envisioning items on the shelves and writing on the board. She came to a stop by the globe and, standing before it, held her palm out and clearly stated a location. Upon her command, a three-dimensional projection of Greece in relief rotated atop the globe.

The smile grew larger.

"Oh, yes," she said. "This is just what I wanted."

Her personal rooms, office and chambers, were similarly agreeable. The office was on the second floor, near the one inhabited by the rotating cast of Defense instructors. It, like the classroom, was small; though, there was room enough for more cases, a commodious desk and several comfortable-looking chairs. It would do nicely, and Hermione expressed as much.

As pleased as she had been with the classroom and the office, the chambers turned out to be a gift. Originally, she had been offered quarters in Gryffindor Tower, near Professor McGonagall's own. Hermione had demurred, though, requesting that she reside in a more neutral location. As a result, she was taken to an unfamiliar area of the fourth floor.

"You'll find that they are quite precisely at the center of the Houses." McGonagall sniffed at the perceived spurning of her own House. "No individual taking precedence over another."

Hermione, checking to see that her possessions had all arrived, mused, "I don't remember these rooms being here before."

"Nor do I," McGonagall admitted. "You may thank the school, itself, for that. When you sent word that you would require – oh, what was the term you used? Non-denominational, was it? Yes, that you would require non-denominational rooms; here they were."

"It's always a surprise, isn't it?" Hermione asked, a bit breathlessly. "Being here. There's never anything the same for more than a moment."

McGonagall's lips curved slightly down. "I find that there is very little about this place that I understand. Less and less, the more and more years go by."

Her voice had a mournful tone that Hermione couldn't remember having heard in it before. Not for the first time, Hermione wondered at the dedication to service it must have taken for Professor McGonagall to remain at the school after having been denied the position as Headmistress. How she must have loathed the changes the new regime had wrought.

The older witch seemed to visibly shake off her sudden melancholy. "I'll leave you to settle in, then. I'd not forget to set your wards, or you'll find yourself visited by all manner of things."

Though the steps toward the door were brisk, there was a brittleness to McGonagall when she turned back once more and said, "Welcome back. I'm very glad you're here, Professor Granger."

She left Hermione to again wonder at what just a few years had wrought. That more than just time weighed upon Professor McGonagall was a thought pushed aside. The other factors were not ones Hermione cared to contemplate. However, as she settled into her old address, she could not deny that Hogwarts was hardly the same as it had been. Even the staff was so very changed.

The new Headmaster was a surprisingly young wizard -- a rather intensely upright man with, it was said, some distant connection to the Muggle Royal Family. He was a decent enough sort, though, and managed the school entirely competently.

In the place of Argus Filch was a matronly witch, introduced only as Mrs. Abernathy. Unlike Filch, she was not a squib and ruled the hallways as stern housemother, rather than vengeful caretaker. The students were generally quite fond of her, even though detention with her entailed cleaning the most disused and dusty corners of the castle without the aid of magic.

Most surprising was the Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Having completed her first year, Pegeen Cathasaigh was, against form, back for another. A former Auror with a bull-like demeanor, she had an accent so thick that Hermione positively wept for the comprehension of the students.

"Oh, gah! Not you, too," the tall, rangy blonde exclaimed upon Hermione's first greeting of her. "Please, please call me Pegeen. I don't think I can stand it being 'Professor this' and 'Madam that' with one more person. It would be nice if we could be friends, or at least on first names with each other. You're the closest person to my age in this whole bloody castle. Other than Professor Wanker, of course."

And Hermione, of course, did not have to ask who exactly Pegeen referred to. It seemed only Snape was exactly the way Hermione remembered. That is, he was cold, aloof and often hostile. The end of the war hadn't eased his dark mood or changed his sour temperament. Not that Hermione still expected that the absence of fighting and fear would have a miraculous impact on the Potions Master. She had long since been removed from the hope that the defeat of Voldemort meant anything other than a general lessening of intense mortal peril.

Victory had not been a cure for anyone, least of all those who were the most desperately in need of it.

It was over a month since Hermione had last seen Harry. While she hated leaving him alone such and extended period, the time with her family had been long overdue; she had immersed herself completely in the visit. With her first term as a teacher looming, and the tasks of acquainting and reacquainting herself with Hogwarts and its staff, it was the night of the thirty-first before she could steal away.

Harry lived in an unplottable cottage on an otherwise uninhabited island off the coast of Wales. It had been the mixed-world sanctuary of a Muggle-born wizard who, upon Tom Riddle's initial, meteoric rise to influence, had fled to safety in solitude. Harry rented it fully furnished; so fully, in fact, that there was very little mark of who Harry was on the tiny home.

Then again, that could also be said of the man, himself.

Hermione arrived to find the cottage unoccupied and dark. There were no wards; any ones that Hermione set in place were immediately dismantled by Harry. She'd soon stopped insisting he needed them. The house was small; it didn't take her long to search the rooms. The kitchen was barren, the bedroom Spartan. Only the main room looked lived in. There was an ancient and ugly sofa, threadbare throw-rugs and a fireplace with embers smouldering. In one corner was a spelled record player. The walls were jammed with cases housing hundreds of books and vinyl records, none belonging to the cottage's tenant, but which he had been voraciously consuming since taking up residence.

On the table before the sofa, the remnants of Harry's evening activities were in evidence -- a glass tumbler; an empty bottle of Muggle whiskey, turned over on its side; and a damp, whiskey smelling copy of _The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus_. Hermione dried the book, banished the bottle and glass, and went out into the night to look for Harry.

She found him lying prone on the beach. The night was cold; autumn freeze came early to the island. A threadbare, brown cardigan was Harry's only acknowledgement of the chill. Hermione crouched beside his form, huffing a sigh of irritation. She might have worried more if not for snores so loud that she could make them out over the wind and the waves.

And, of course, for the countless times prior she had found him like this.

Hermione dropped next to him on the sand, and cradled her head in her own hands. Palms pressed into eye sockets, she sat a long time, thinking of nothing but the roar of the wind and cold sting of it on her exposed ears.

Eventually, she gave in to responsibility and, with little labour, levitated him indoors. After dropping him on to his bed, she retrieved a glass of water, a vial of sobering potion and one for headaches. Depositing them on the table next to Harry's bed, she set herself to the task of waking him.

"Hey! Itchoo!" Harry slurred, when he finally, blearily opened his eyes.

"Yes, Harry, it's me." Hermione uncorked the sobering potion and held it to his lips. "Drink this."

"It's Hermominees." Harry obediently lifted his head and drank.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the slurred butchering of her name. "Yes, it's _Hermione_." She held the glass of water to his lips. "Sip this."

Harry sipped.

"There. Now, go back to sleep, Harry. I'm leaving a vial for your headache. You'll want it in the morning."

Ignoring her, Harry said, "Was wondering when you'd show up."

Hermione snorted, indelicately. "So you thought you'd tie one on and catch yourself a bit of hypothermia while you waited? Excellent thinking, Harry. Really, just top-notch."

"Don' be sarcazzic, Miomone. Is not nice. Makes you sound like Snape. All...Snapey, you know."

"Will that make you pay attention? Alright, then." Hermione deepened her voice and slowed her own cadence into a reasonable facsimile of their old Potions Master. "Are you dead from the neck up, Potter? I distinctly remember telling you to shut your eyes and go to sleep."

For her efforts, Harry gave a distinctly un-manly giggle.

"Stay here tonight, Snape-ione," he slurred, taking her hand.

She sighed. "I can't tonight, Harry. I have to go back to Hogwarts."

"Still can't believe you're teaching," he said as the sobering potion began to solidify his enunciation.

Hermione smoothed his hair from his forehead, passing a soothing hand over his scar.

"You don't think I'll be any good at it?" she asked softly.

Harry shook his head vehemently enough to make himself wince. "That's not it. Just that you're young to be teaching there. Can't believe Dumbledore'd let you."

"Oh, Harry." Hermione didn't have the heart to remind him that the Headmaster was too dead to object.

It didn't matter, though. Harry could remind himself of that fact, well enough. His alcohol-loosened body stiffened and, in the low light of his bedroom, his eyes glittered. He released Hermione's hand and rolled over, turning his face from her.

In a clear and sober voice, he said, "I know."


	2. September

In September, the students returned to Hogwarts; and Hermione became a teacher in practice as well as in name.

Skulking in the shadowy clerestory, she watched the students arrive, save for the first years. How young, how small, they all seemed. Hermione watched them disembark, piling out of the carriages, tumbling over each other like puppies. Hardly more than babies, they seemed, even those who had not been more than a few years behind her. It was a sort of illusion, Hermione told herself. She knew very well that it was a trick of the mind. Hermione, herself, had felt like a proper grownup, even when she was a first year; and she hadn't yet witnessed the gruesome brutality of war. These children had already seen more horrors than most adults would in a lifetime. As she watched them, she noticed how they gave a wide berth to the Thestrals, all of them. There were few amongst the mass to whom the dark beasts were still invisible, but even those who could not see seemed to know that something was there.

There was little innocence left in Wizarding Britain.

Hermione left her vantage point abruptly, unable to stand how the Thestrals made the children shudder, even while they tried so valiantly to pretend they weren't afraid. She walked the hall at great speed, her hands clasped tight together in front with nails biting cruelly into white knuckles, accompanied by her own soft footfalls, the rustle of her robes, and by the terror and the screaming that had never ceased to plague her memories.

Hardly calmed by the time she reached the Great Hall, she saw that the staff was already seating itself at the High Table; Hermione took her place, as well. Headmaster Mowatt seemed to favour a merit-based system of placing the staff, and, as a junior member of the faculty, she found herself all the way to one end. The only seat further away from the center belonged to Professor Binns, and then only because his chair remained vacant more often than it was filled. Ghosts had little need for food and the History teacher remained as difficult to pin down as he had always been. He was, in fact, absent when Hermione sat.

The chair to her right, however, was not. Impassive and humourless as always, Professor Snape sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked into the fabric of his voluminous robes. It was a thoroughly disagreeable arrangement. Though Professor Sprout sat on the other side of Snape, Hermione could not very well carry on a conversation over him. That was a depth of rudeness to which she was unwilling to sink.

"Sir," she crisply acknowledged Professor Snape.

"Madam," he returned without sparing her a glance.

Hermione resigned herself to quiet, chilly mealtimes and worked at arranging her robes around herself, regretting their design. She had purchased them in Shanghai, a popular style amongst Wizarding folk there. Though the deep blue silk with gold dragon brocade was very pretty, the capaciousness of the bell sleeves made it difficult to keep the fabric from encroaching on Professor Snape's personal space. Hermione was certain she would put a sleeve in his soup before the evening was over.

Outside the Hall, there was an approaching roar that rose to a cacophony as the students crashed in. Hermione watched the students find seats at their House tables, looking for familiar faces. She was shocked at how few she recognized and was relived when Natalie McDonald waved wildly as she took her seat at the Gryffindor table. Hermione wiggled her fingers back while giving Nattie what she hoped was a stern and professorial look. The girl grinned and turned back to her friends.

Snape, to Hermione's right, snorted rather loudly.

"Did you find something amusing, Professor Snape?" she asked. "Do share; I could use the laugh."

Snape did not take his eyes off of the students assembled before them. "I was simply wondering, Miss Granger, if you would be sleeping in the dormitory with the other students."

"Why, Professor," Hermione returned with a warm, though clinical, detachment. "If you wished to know the location of my personal rooms, you need only ask. There's no need to cage curiosity in idle speculation."

"Rest assured, I already know where your chambers are," Snape murmured. "I always know which areas of the school are to, at all costs, be avoided."

This time, it was Hermione who snorted.

There was an amusing sort of symmetry to life, Hermione thought the next day, as she stood in front of her first ever class. There she was, in her black robes, believing as she did that an academic's robes should always be very serious, with a room full of quaking children before her. Slytherin first years, no less. In the faces presented to her, Hermione saw fear, mistrust and, in some, outright hostility. They had been warned, she was sure, to expect a tyrannical Gryffindor despot for a teacher. Bloody idiots, she thought, still taking inter-House conflict so seriously, as though the colour of one's necktie truly dictated one's behaviour.

It was enough to make a girl want to wash her hands of the lot of them.

"Good morning," Hermione said to her students, smiling warmly. "I'm Professor Granger and this is World Magic."

The students met her with stony, sullen silence. Hermione sighed and, with a flick of her wand, she dimmed the room's light.

"The magical world," she continued, "is not comprised of simply these little islands on which we live."

Another flick and the Wizard's Globe floated free of its stand. Up, up, up, it floated, rotating before the children. And then, with a surreptitious swish or her wand, the globe came to life. In India, elephants trumpeted. In Africa, lions roared. Monkeys screamed in the rainforests and the oceans rippled with underwater creatures. Everywhere, people lived and loved; and everywhere, there was magic. The globe glowed with wonders untold, and Hermione spoke of them, her voice unconsciously reverent.

"There is, all around us, a macrocosm of magic to be discovered. There is magic, not just in the traditions we are a part of, but in everything. Magic in every man and every animal. Magic in every grain of sand and every drop of water. On every surface, there is magic; and there is magic in what lies beneath. By learning all that we can about the world in which we live, we shall come to know the value of understanding the untapped sources. We shall come to know the power in magical syncretism and use it for good."

The Globe floated back down to its pedestal, stilling atop it, reverting from miraculous, to simply educational.

"Now," Hermione briskly said, another flick of her wand copying the pertinent points of her lecture onto the blackboard behind her. "Who can theorize what I mean by magical syncretism?"

For a moment the class was silent and still. It seemed, impossibly, that not a child stirred. When a small girl with olive skin and tidy, blue-black hair tentatively raised her hand, Hermione let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding.

It was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine.

And it was. For two weeks, Hermione flew deliriously through her days. She found that, having acquired so much information in her travels, she was tripping over herself to share it. Classes were over in a moment; she often felt that she'd hardly begun to speak when it was time to let the students move on. By and large, the students responded to her fervour, caught up in her dervish-like methodology. When she demonstrated that the spark of anticipatory fear that came from playing with a Muggle toy, a Jack-in-the-Box, had the same root as a simple Dread Charm, she was the talk of the school for a full day. Though she was called to the Headmaster like a naughty student and chastised for her inappropriate usage of a Muggle artifact, Hermione considered it a rousing success. She was already planning how to incorporate it more successfully into future lessons by the time she left his office.

All things told, Hermione found that, for the first time in years, she was largely incapable of pulling a convincing frown, responding with genuine warmth to faculty, staff and students alike. Still, there was one thorn in her paw, as there is wont to be, even in the most satisfactory of lives; and that thorn, it often seemed, had been stuck for years, throbbing and festering. Though Hermione was no longer his student, Professor Snape continued to be both a nuisance and a source of woe. He made the Headmaster's twice-weekly faculty meetings most unpleasant, with his vocal distain of Hermione's chosen field of practice. She had come to dread mealtimes; though Snape usually preferred to miss breakfast and dinner, he did make an appearance at supper. For Hermione, the evening meal meant icy silence and the constant fear the she would jostle his arm, or tread on his foot, or sit too near him, or too far away, any of which might bring down the wrath of his vicious, scornful tongue. It was quite an impossible situation, which Hermione bore the only way she knew: by squaring her shoulders and bulling through with dogged determination. She was largely successful at ignoring the ireful Professor, and, with frequent use of breathing exercises she had learned in Tibet, avoided losing her own temper. If she could manage the school year without putting her fist to Snape's nose, she would consider it a wild success.

Snape, for his part, seemed anxious for a blackened eye. One night, not more than two weeks after the Welcoming Feast, Hermione sat curled into one of the Staff Room's large, cushioned chairs with a volume on modern Italian spell-poetry. Opposite her, Pegeen graded Third Year parchments, occasionally reading aloud the more amusing effort--in particular, Chrysanthemum Charles' assertion that, while the Pogrebin was native to Russia, one must certainly have a hand in the creation of her own mum's leaden puddings, such were Chrysanthemum's feelings of despair on being presented with one. Hermione was in stitches over the girl's description of how, one night, a treacle tart tried to devour her in her sleep, when Snape swooped into the room, coming to a stop before Hermione.

"Do you believe yourself to be capable of teaching every subject offered here?" he asked without preamble.

Hermione hiccupped over a stifled giggle. "I beg your pardon?"

"I would appreciate it, Miss Granger, if you would kindly stop instructing your classes in Potions, as that is my expertise."

Snape presented her with a piece of parchment. Hermione, looking it over, found it to be notes taken by a Ravenclaw Second Year, from her previous day's lecture.

"Ah," she acknowledged, making mental note of the student. They were very good notes, even if they were getting her into trouble.

"'Ah'? Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry. What else would you like me to say?"

"Perhaps you'd like to explain why you're teaching Potions in," Snape sniffed disdainfully, "World Magic."

Hermione breathed deeply. "I was not teaching Potions, Professor Snape. I was simply drawing an obvious comparison between the anti-Hoodoo elixirs used by witchdoctors on certain Caribbean islands and protection potions traditionally made by ourselves."

Snape scowled. "There couldn't possibly be any correlation between Muggle superstition and the practices of true Wizards."

"I'm certain, sir, that if you looked into the properties of these elixirs, you'd find them fascinating."

"I've neither the time nor the desire to study the swamp water of Muggle quacks," Snape said imperiously.

"I think Hermione's of the right, and not just because she's nicer than you are about it, Professor," Pegeen stated with her usual bluntness.

Without turning to face her, Snape replied, "And you're an expert on the subject, I'm sure, Miss Cathasaigh."

Hermione scowled at his impoliteness, even while Pegeen continued on blithely.

"Actually, I went to school in the Islands, so I do know a bit about it."

"Not Hogwarts?" Hermione, interested, leaned over the arm of her chair, peering around Snape's voluminous robes.

Pegeen grinned. "Nah. My first year was back when Voldemort was just starting to get a bit tricky, the first time around. Da's Ma was killed by Grindelwald, so, they weren't about to let me fool with Voldemort. Sent me away to school on Nevis. Alexander Hamilton Academy, that's the school there. He was a wizard, you know; Hamilton was. Bloody good one, too. 'Cept for the pistol-dueling-with-Muggles bit, of course. That was right stupid of him. Muggles with some magic ways was accepted practice there, though. Everyone knew that there were Muggles who could bring a mighty hardship down on a person."

"That's ridiculous," Snape interrupted with a sneer, though he did finally turn to include Pegeen.

"It's absolutely not ridiculous, Professor," Hermione said. "I was in Haiti last summer. There was a Muggle woman in Port-au-Prince who could cure the summer fever with a poultice of powdered lizard tail and guano, and not more than an hour of chanting."

Snape's lips had a nasty curl to them. "While I can certainly see how you might be duped by such a clever ruse as bat droppings and mumbling, Miss Granger, that proves nothing. The fever could very well have passed on its own."

Pegeen smiled knowingly at Hermione and gestured at Snape. "Don't take it personal, love. It's hard for them lot to believe such things are possible. English wizarding's got so narrow, you know. I was the only Irish witch at school. Mostly Americans there. A few islanders. A Canadian a few years ahead of me. They find it easier to accept that Muggles aren't always just Muggles."

"Then they're addled," Snape snarled, "and as without worth as Muggles themselves.

Pegeen, despite her experience and typically blasé attitude, was appalled; and Hermione suspected that it wasn't herself from which Snape was in danger of a pummeling.

"I apologize if this interfered with your own lesson planning," Hermione smoothly interrupted the eminent altercation, "but there is certain to be some overlap between the subjects. I shall endeavor to inform you of any mention I might make of anything to do with Potions at all." Hermione tucked the parchment into the dragon's hide portfolio, a Christmas gift from the Weasleys, she carried. "I'll be sure this gets back to Mister MacFusty for you, Professor. I wouldn't want you to have to go out of your way to return it to him."

Snape pulled a truly sour face. "How very considerate of you."

With a swirl of black robes, he swept from the room without further comment, soon after followed by stifled peals of girlish laughter.

That year, Hemione's birthday fell on a Saturday; and, in early evening on the day, she Apparated to Harry's with the intent of spending the night. It was unseasonably warm on the island; the wind was quiet and the sun had just started to set. Hermione's cloak was suddenly stifling. She undid the clasp and shrugged the heavy wool off, leaving her in trainers, jeans and a light jumper--the Muggle clothing she still preferred to wear outside of Wizarding society. With the cloak dragging unceremoniously behind her, she wandered up the overgrown path toward Harry's home.

Hermione found her friend on the cottage's front porch, in the long, cushioned swing that had been amongst Harry's few modifications to the property. He was barefoot, with one foot tucked beneath him, the other pushing the swing back and forth just slightly. Intent on the heavy paperback in his lap, he didn't notice Hermione approach until she was at the steps of the cottage. She was glad to see that, while the tumbler at his feet was empty, the bottle of whisky next to it was nearly full. When he looked up at her, Harry's eyes were clear and sober.

"What are you reading this time?" Hermione asked, setting her bag down.

Harry held up the thick book. "_Middlemarch_. By George Eliot, who, incidentally, was not a bloke."

Hermione laughed. Harry smiled at her, obvious in his pleasure at her mirth.

"How is it?" she asked, encouraging him.

Harry sighed. "Boring."

He tossed the book aside and beckoned to her. Hermione took his hand and, seating herself next to him on the swing, tucked her feet up.

"Have you had a nice birthday, 'Mione?"

"Better now." Hermione smiled up at him. "But, yes, it's been quite satisfactory. Pegeen took me out to Hogsmeade for a Butterbeer this week and I got some exceptionally impersonal gifts from the rest of the faculty."

"Quills and parchment?" Harry laughed.

"And ink. Don't forget the ink."

"Well, you'll have to write me more letters, won't you then?"

Hermione nodded sagely. "Indeed. After all, I can't let perfectly good obligation gifts go to waste."

"Indeed. I have a present for you, too," Harry said, and made to lift from the chair.

Hermione grasped his hand, holding him there. "It'll keep."

"Alright," Harry said quietly and settled down again. Hermione laced her fingers through his and rested her head on his shoulder. Together, they watched the sun set into the horizon, staining the sky and water orange and gold and pink. It was a long time, the sky nearly dark, before Hermione spoke again.

"You know I love you, Harry." She looked up at him, her voice quiet and intense.

Harry looked down at her, startled.

Hermione squeezed his hand, hard. "You know that, right?"

He smiled and, looking back toward the ocean, said, "I know."


End file.
